


zero distance; crimson breaths

by sheengyi (colouring)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Gen, M/M, mention of self harm, one is fluff the other is angst, there are two drabbles here!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 16:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9770981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colouring/pseuds/sheengyi
Summary: two drabbles!zero distanceluhan can finally return to the embrace that he hasn't felt for so long. fluffy. layhan. 464wcrimson breathsthere is more than one way to breathe. not-so-fluffy. luhan. 350w.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello! two drabbles here, a fluffy and angsty one. please feel free to drop any constructive criticisms!
> 
> previously posted on livejournal under sheengyi

**zero distance**

luhan flits between the crowds in scurried steps. his beige hat bops up and down, strangely in sync with his clumsy hops over some businessmen’s branded wheeled totes. his lime suitcase is just as clumsy (if not worse) and soon, luhan’s ears are attacked by a garble of harsh mandarin profanities. automatically, he starts bowing in ninety degrees, shouting ‘죄송합니다! 죄송합니다!’ to everyone within auditory range. He furrows his brows at the confused and startled faces; it clicks - immediately he nods in embarrassment, murmuring a messy ‘对不起, 对不起’ and hurries off.  
  
  
luhan wants to mentally kick himself. korean mannerisms and etiquettes have seeped deep into his subconscious and he sometimes forgets that china just isn’t the same as korea. luhan glances to the window at his left. even the summer sky looks different, he thinks. not a single grey cloud in sight; stretches of azure and white paint the entirety of the dome, the wispy clouds lazily cruising and mingling with one another against the infinite expanse of blue canvas.

  
  
luhan fumbles his backpack for a small painting of the same sky – his only reminder of china. his eyes wander to the right corner of the portrait, where a small ‘张艺兴’ was scribbled.  he chuckles.

  
  
  
 _and it was his only reminder of_ him _._  

 

  
  
  
  
a blast of cold air grapples luhan’s face as he enters the busy arrivals hall. His eyes scan the bustle of faces, searching for those bright twinkling eyes, those eyes he hasn’t seen for two years, wondering whether they have changed or lost their luster (but surely that’s impossible?)…

  
  
_there!_

  
  
something drops with a sharp _clang!_ – but luhan hears nothing between the fervent thumping of his heart as he _runs_ , runs faster than the wind and in all those times during training, his sneakers emitting a harsh mixture of stomps and squeaks when they collide with the floor, and all he can do is smile, a sickeningly wide grin at the sight of those eyes and that deep, distinct dimple coming closer and closer—

  
  
and before he can register, a mess of brown curls shoves at his face and luhan is breathing in that faint familiar smell of peppermints, and it dawns on him that yixing is actually _there_ in flesh and not some measly pixilated copy on the computer screen. yixing _existed_ , and so does his warm hug, his arms surrounding luhan’s battered body, his soft hands caressing the entirety of luhan’s back – and it’s as if luhan can finally _relax_ , can finally drop the heavy burdens on his shoulder to the floor and just drown himself in heavenly bliss.

  
  
_it’s been too long already. but I’m home now._

 

* * *

**crimson breaths**

the cold wind rustles against the thin tips of his white shirt. the horizon seizes all traces of orange and warmth in the sky, dragging them down to the depths and letting the colours in the sky swirl to an impending mess of inky blue. luhan breathes in the harsh air, letting its icy fingers overpower his entire being as the dim twilight casts a lethargic veil over his gaunt face.

****  
  


luhan tries to ignore the mocking rays of the bustling world below. he tries to forget that contemptuous (and familiar) ring of laughter he sometimes hears straddled between the night sky and his memories. he tries to forget emotions and feelings, early coffee mornings and late night phone calls, messy breaths under blankets and warm whispers between spaces.

****  
  


but still the colours come, bursting in vivid shades and exorbitant hues without borders or lines to control them. that reminiscent and yet, foreign symphony continues to ring in his ears, clinging to the distant _tick tock_ of a clock tucked in the corner of his mind. and the feelings - no, no matter how hard he tries, they continue to suffocate him, drowning him in a bottomless sea and forcing gallons and gallons of misery down his throat and lungs.

**  
**   
  
_is this what they call too much?_ ****  
  


'  
  
there is a moment of still silence before a sharp tip comes crashing against the pale flimsy barrier of luhan's skin. a strangled cry escapes from his lips but it dissolves into nothingness. a northerly gale howls at his ears, screaming throaty words in static that crumble with every drop of salty red beads. he shudders.

****  
  


and a brand new feeling conquers him. he feels rejuvenated, reincarnated, reborn.

****  
  


no longer does luhan walk on top of the glass shards of his memories. the bloodied cracks against his pale skin exhales and inhales with vigorous determination - as if blowing out the desperate and sickening remnants of his past life.

****  
  


he lets those carvings shrivel, he lets them weep - because it’s the only way he can ever feel like breathing again.


End file.
